


The Colours of The World

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship, Getting Together, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5090192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Colour Theory was a relatively unexplored field, partly social science partly neurobiology. Some scientists claimed that the rush of colour came about by the colour stimulus being psychically connected to brain waves which had a level of compatibility to your own. There have been years of study trying to assign the meanings to colours, that shades of purple denote platonic love, that yellows and creams were family ties, red for romantic love and blue for admiration. These studies had most remained private and unfunded, denoting more to sentiment than to science.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Grantaire doesn't have a favourite colour, but that doesn't matter because there's something beautiful in greyscale and he has yet to meet Les Amis de l'ABC who promise to light up his days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Colours of The World

**Author's Note:**

> The title from 'Red and Black' was just a filler phrase until I could think of another, but after a few months it kind of stuck.
> 
> Containing a handful of Hamilton references, because I am weak and a loving rip off of the infamous "Be Easy" scene from 'Enjolras and his Lieutenants' which I hadn't realised I'd written until I'd finished the passage.
> 
> I have wanted to write this particular soulmate fic, which has been in my mind since the trope of soulmates became common, and now I've finally finished it the moment has passed, but regardless, enjoy.

Grantaire’s first colour was turquoise.

There was very little turquoise in his grey house growing up, only the occasional flicker in his sister’s eyes. She’d given him the colour, even as a child he’d known that. It could only have been her.

Denise later said that there’s been the rush of pink when her baby brother was put into her arms.

There weren’t many more colours throughout his childhood, a particular shade of plum came from a kindly aunt and his first art teacher had shown him maroon on a colour wheel, standing out amid the greyscale of shades which apparently made up the completed cycle.

Colour Theory was still relatively unexplored, but scientists made fanciful claims about colour stimulus being psychically connected to brain waves which had a level of compatibility to your own. The world was grey until you met people who would colour it for you. There was the romantic assumption that your first colours were black and white, given to you by your infant brain recognising your parent’s love for you, but that was heteronormative, outdated and assumed that everyone came from a loving home most scientists put forth that people were born in seeing in greyscale.

Blindness, visual impairments and colour-blindness were crudely pushed aside in terms of Colour Theory. Firstly by scientific thought which counted them as biological or psychosomatic anomalies, and secondly by society, who despite claims of enlightenment and reason, clung to the romantic _meaning_ behind the colours, unable to process that colour was just light and that people were more important than pigments.  

The theory went that each person who you met who could impact your life shocked another colour into your system. Some people live their lives in shades of grey, and other have reported seeing colours that the words haven’t been invited to describe.

There have been years of study trying to assign the meanings to colours, that shades of purple denote platonic love, that yellows and creams were family ties, red for romantic love and blue for admiration. These studies had most remained private and unfunded, denoting more to sentiment than to science.

Grantaire doesn’t believe them at any rate, he knows that Denise gave him turquoise.

He’d painted her once, in shades of grey, but with turquoise eyes and streaks of the colour in her dark grey hair. She’d hung it up in her room when she was thirteen, and even through it’s not his best work she took it with her when he moved out. Although they don’t spend a lot of time talking about the colours, Grantaire know that she’s got more colours than he does, he doesn’t know what she can see in the grey and turquoise painting, whether the grey means something else to her, something that Grantaire can’t see.

But what everyone says, what’s common knowledge of those who discuss colours, who do dissertations in colour theory and host gossip chat shows on mid-morning television, is that the colour that transpires to be a person’s favourite is often provoked by their meeting the most important person in their lives.

The person who’s brain waves most align to your own. Or at least, that is the attempted scientific rationale behind it.

The romantic tradition talks of soulmates. Most people do not, while there is still an association between your favourite colour and romance, it’s accepted that platonic friendships and family members can be just as important.

Grantaire doesn’t have a favourite colour.

Oh, he has a range of hues, by the grand old age of twenty six he can fill in just under half of the colour wheel that Mme Manners, had given him as a child. And that’s okay, most people never fill in all of their colours, and there’s something beautiful in grey.

He has orange and yellow and the darkest shade of blue where it fades into to black. He has turquoise, and plum and something soft and gentle that from what his sister described might be pink.

He’s missing the left hand side of his colour wheel most of all, there is fades into shades of grey. He can almost imagine the colours that might be there, he is an artist, he understands rudimentary colour science, but it’s not the same as being able to see the colours with his own eyes.

It’s difficult to be an artist with limited colours. He can work in intentional black and white – as long as the oils are labelled appropriately, more than one work has been ruined by the paint he assumed was grey appearing cherry to unknowing eyes – he can pay extortionate amounts for a full-seeing artist to do his line art justice, or he can hope, mixing his colours with the multiple greys at hand and he can hope that what he creates looks like the real sky.

Joly keeps his colour wheel on him at all times, no one has been able to assay him of the old wives tale that you lose a colour when a loved one dies. Grantaire keeps his own in his art drawer, it is something precious. An object of sentiment. Joly has a travel copy, small enough to slip into a pocket so Grantaire had learnt immediately that Joly and Bossuet had given him yellow and orange and had been able to identify them as such. He doesn’t know who gave him which colour, but it doesn’t really matter they’re so interlinked.

“We’re each other’s favourite colours.”

Had it been anyone else Grantaire may not have believed them, it would have been too twee and too clichéd for both Bossuet and Joly to have found each other and their favourite shade at once. But they are the happiest people that Grantaire has ever met, and happy with themselves as with each other. He can well believe that they light up each other’s lives.

He gave Joly violet and Bossuet copper.

Their friendship is firm and bright, and they three wear matching friendship bracelets, which Grantaire spun together out of orange, violet and yellow thread, capped with copper beading. They all match, and it doesn’t matter that for Grantaire the third thread is faded into grey. It is symbolic, and one day, perhaps he’ll understand what Joly smiles over. He hadn’t realised he had owned copper until Bossuet had pointed out a bead that he himself could see the colour of. Idly Grantaire wonders who gave it to him, and whether he gave a colour in return.

The first time he met Éponine, she sidled up to him as though they were firm friends and not cold strangers and wrapped an arm around his shoulder with all the grace of a cat.

“So, what’s your favourite colour?” She had purred.

It’s the most inappropriate means of flirtations there is, implying that it might be you. He’s used the line a few times, often to smirks and the embarrassment by one or both parties of pointing and attempting to capture a colour that one of them couldn’t see. The silence, drowned over by the thumbing music had lasted only a moment before her veneer cracked and she threw back her head and laughed.

“The world’s been greyscale to me for years, buy me a drink sweetheart.”

And he had and so their friendship had begun. 

Grantaire has got no idea whether she was lying about having no colours, there surely are people who love her, and her eyes trace Marius too often for him not to have given her anything – although maybe that’s just wishful thinking. He doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t volunteer the information again.

He certainly never tells her that she gave him lilac, that moment when she hugged him like an old friend. She wouldn’t thank him for it. He draws her in charcoal, so they can both pretend that the greyness of it was circumstantial rather than intentional. Éponine wants the world of true equality, but in her heart she would rather that everyone was like her and had nothing, as opposed to raising the whole world bright. Grantaire cannot begrudge her, through whispers and hearsay he has heard her story and he would like to wipe the slate clean too.

Most of Joly and Bossuet’s colours came through their girlfriend. They are not shy about sharing, be it information, friendship or each other. So Grantaire knows more about the colours of his newest friends than he does about his family. And it is this knowledge which gives him a level of familiarity with Joly and Bossuet’s group of mutual friends. The infamous Les Amis de l'ABC, and Grantaire doesn’t know how he hasn’t met them yet. They have been moving in the same circles, twisting around the same universities and social sphere for years, but that it how the world works. He has a job and a life and he has yet to branch out to meet them. He knows Joly and Marius and Bossuet and Éponine and it seems that the world is conspiring to have him meet the network. But despite not having met them, he has known Joly and Bossuet speak of them for months, and he feels like he knows them. He likes to think that they’d give him colours too.

It isn’t that he is necessarily lonely, Grantaire succeeds in surrounding himself with familiarity. Even if they don’t all give Grantaire colours, Grantaire knows people and he is never want of company.

The social justice group are doing a demonstration, and the invitation is passed along to Grantaire, by of all people, Marius. Marius, the hapless boy who Éponine wants to love and more importantly wants to love her, who is rooming with the deputy of the group. Who would have thought that Paris could be so small?

Marius is kind and mousy, only appropriate with the colour that he graced Grantaire with. But he is honest and he wants Grantaire to be there, and the invitation comes right from the top. Anyone who is friends with not only Marius but Joly and Bossuet is already an honouree member apparently.

The world truly wants him to meet Les Amis, with their puns and their earnest desire for equality, and it would take far more effort to work against the tide as to go with it.

Apparently no one else in the group can believe that they have not met Grantaire either.

The demonstration is to be something small. A public address and for once not led by Les Amis de l'ABC. Their leader Enjolras is introducing a speaker, having been asked to perform as master of ceremonies in order to throw more weight behind the voices of the oppressed.

Grantaire hasn’t met Enjolras either, but he’d head of him. Oh he had heard of him long before he’d reached out tentatively into this world. The name rang a bell from his student days, when he’d read the actions and motions of the national student unions, ever hopeful for something to actually change. It never did, but the name Enjolras rang out clear.

Dropping out from university should have severed ties with the over optimistic ideals of student politics and yet. Anyone who’s anyone in the Parisian young activism scene knows of Enjolras and Les Amis de l'ABC. Grantaire is almost intrigued politically as well as socially.

It doesn’t take as much persuading as he would like before he agrees to meet them before the demo. Éponine can’t go, she has to save up her leave to care for her little brother – little Gavroche, peach – but she insists that he should show an appearance, pretend to be a functional human being for once. Enjolras will be talking intermittently, but the whole of Les Amis will all be on hand, and later they are planning on going for drinks – something Grantaire will never turn down – and everyone, Bossuet, Éponine Marius and Joly all think that he’ll enjoy himself. That he’ll fit in.

Grantaire is like the chameleon. He can fit in anywhere. And he can’t say that he cares too much for the lofty and unachievable ideals that Les Amis de l'ABC are famous for, but it would be nice to meet more people. He knows everyone, but he’s happiest with friends and while Floréal Skypes him once a week, it’s not the same.

Floréal had given him navy blue, and more importantly a book of colours, she’d pressed a kiss to his cheek when she told him she was leaving and gave him the book. A great coffee-table piece on shades and hues, historical meaning of getting those colours, great works of art with those colours key. There were post-it notes on certain pictures, a filthy commentary, or just saying that she liked the piece or not. It cost most that her wages, and far more than he was worth, but she’d timed it perfectly, and was already on the bus waving at him before he could register that she’d given it to him. Before he could register that she was going. (“You gave me gold Grantaire, what more could I possibly ask for?”) He copied her favourite – it appeared to be of the ocean at dawn, half sunny yellows and pale pinks and half grey – into navy and gold and shipped it half way across the world to her.

Even with the yellow sun in the sky it was a grey day.

The grass was grey, the sky was grey, the bus that Grantaire rode on was grey, and when he looked down he didn’t even know the colour that he was wearing.

Normally he picked out colours he knew, he was just lucky that his first boss had shown him his own skin, for too many years he’d looked in the mirror and been a grey person in a grey house. His walls here still grey but he recognised the faintly olive tone of his skin. Most people had skin tone now.

Bossuet and Joly promised to wear matching orange and yellow hats, so Grantaire could easily find them where he lost in a sea of grey but it transpires that he doesn’t need too. Les Amis are an instant explosion of colour as soon as he looks over to the familiar figure of Marius who waves a little awkwardly in his direction.

He sees Les Amis and suddenly it is what it must feel like to be inside a firework. (Sky blue and amber and russet and lime and cream and bronze and fuchsia and something so dark that it looks like black but with a hint of something richer, something much earthier.) And for a moment Grantaire wants the safety of greyscale back, this is all too much and all too new. There are stories of people going mad for colours, children gone feral and scared of the colours they saw; many a gothic horror had been written involving idiotic heroes putting out their own eyes once their love had died. Colours were as much a curse as a blessing. But that only lasts for a moment, because this new world is far too bright to look away from for long and when he blinks away his momentarily lapse of faith there is Joly beside him brandishing his wheel at his right hand side, and at his left is the young man with daises in his dreadlocks.

“Oh, you’ve given me the most beautiful sapphire, Grantaire was it? I think you and I are going to be firm friends."

Jehan – who for a fraction of a second had been clothed in grey, but now looks like the refraction of light itself – points to the travel wheel which had been waiting in plain sight in Joly’s hand, at one of the view sections which to Grantaire, remain grey

Les Amis greet him with exuberance and delight and Grantaire counts himself lucky that he found such people. That he was pointed in their direction. There is no such thing as fate, there is only circumstances and navigating the pitfalls of life but he can see more colours in the twenty six it took him to turn his head towards Les Amis than he had seen in the twenty six years previous.

Grantaire has no hope of differentiating which colours they gave him, although there seem to have been such an increase to denote one each. Each of them know which colour he gave them, and that he gave each of them a colour in return burns somewhere deep in his heart like hope. Courfeyrac talks gleefully of being able to see the completed fire – Grantaire claims that he doesn’t want to know why everyone else balks at that, but secretly he thinks that he and Courfeyrac are going to get on just fine - and Combeferre complains about the clash that his orange tie makes against his pink shirt. Apparently the rest of his friends between all of them could identify the two colours – something which Grantaire couldn’t have done prior to meeting them all – but had decided to let Combeferre suffer some indignity in colour clashes. Combeferre laughs along with the rest of them, and then they are harried towards the staging area.

“You’ve heard of Enjolras of course-” As though it would be ridiculous to think otherwise. Of course it is ridiculous, for Grantaire had known the name Enjolras long before he’d heard of Les Amis but it seems churlish to mention it.

“Our chief,” another voice pops up. And Grantaire is normally excellent with people but he cannot fault himself just this once. “The boss!” There are so many new colours in the world that to concentrate and just to look prove too great a feat. “Number One!”

“Although don’t tell him that, first among equals here, right citizen?” That is Feuilly, talking and laughing in equal measure and Grantaire cannot keep the smile from his face.

“- is comparing this event and given the opening speech, you won’t miss him; he’s the one with the long hair and he has this aversion to buttoning his shirt properly. Not that he needs to. It’s a shame that he doesn’t seem to notice.”

Bahorel, it had been Bahorel who sought to bring Grantaire up to speed with proceedings is lovingly shushed by his compatriots. Well, Jehan elbows him in the waist but the action hardly seems to faze him, who ruffles Jehan’s hair and then fixes his daises idly as a voice of welcome floats over the gathered crowd.

There are significantly more than just Les Amis there, Grantaire grudgingly admits. There is no denying that people care, but whether people can turn that passion into action, into something that will last rather than wither away. That is the question. There is a reason why he focuses on the tangible affects in life, in art and friendship and alcohol. Life itself is the curse and the cure. Life and light. Colours and catastrophes.

The stage is outside, under brown trees with grey leaves. The sky is overwhelmingly bright behind the man standing at the microphone that Grantaire’s breath is taken away. He could stare at the sky forever. Until he catches eyes on the man in the red coat, haloed by the brightness of the leaves behind him which only a moment ago had been grey.

“Psst, Joly,” he says, crouching down to where Joly has set down his travel-chair to observe the scene from necessary comfort, “the leaves. They burn, with _something_ , I’d call it the opposite to fire. What do you call that, what am I missing?”

Joly doesn’t pull out his colour wheel, and he doesn’t reprimand Grantaire for talking. Later Grantaire will find out that Enjolras had practiced his opening speech, in fact practiced all of his speeches, to Les Amis to gather feedback and criticism. Instead he smiles.

“Green. It’s called green.”

The leaves are shining and bright. His canvas shoes match the treetops. He feels as though he could drown in the colour, in the feeling. It is peaceful even amid the tremulous fountain of newly found colours canvassing through his brain. 

"Green, I love it."

Joly smiles harder, if that were possible and looks from Grantaire – who knows that he is smiling too hard – and back to their leader.

“Oh, R. You have it bad. It was him, wasn’t it?”

There’s no point in denying it, and he knows – of course – that it was the noble and indomitable Enjorlas who gave him this gift. The stage is empty but for Enjolras, and his gaze had only rested there. So instead he shrugs, continuing the crouch into a sit, until he’s sitting in the green grass, resting his head against Joly’s thigh, listening to Enjolras’ words and looking up at the blue sky.

There are colours everywhere. It is almost as though there are colours in Enjolras’ speech.

Enjolras remains on the stage even after he has spoken his piece. He introduces the various activists and speakers; thanks them and hugs and once winks over to the gaggle of his friends. Grantaire doesn’t wave.

While Grantaire’s ears are listening – the speeches are objectively interesting and several of them, were he not overwhelmed by colour, he’d be considering raising questions against - but his eyes are darting around. He cannot decided whether the bright newness of _green_ or the sudden clarity of Enjolras is where he wants to focus his gaze.

Enjolras rounds off the two hour event; which has been held in glorious sunshine as opposed to the grey day it had appeared to Grantaire before he _knew,_ with a round of applause for the speakers before the crowds disperse.

Les Amis are going to celebrate. It is less of a celebration, and more of a continuation of the jubilance of the day, the demo went well and there were no disruptions and they are just happy to know each other and to be together.

And Grantaire is expected to join them. He cannot think of any objections to proceedings, even if he had any. He wants to let today draw out until the colours of dusk bleed out into the dark sky. But even night is not truly black. Once colours have emerged there is no stopping them. Grantaire wants to let this, whatever it is, flourish, and so he will join them and he wants to.

Enjolras will meet them at the café. Grantaire is momentarily almost disappointed, he had been first tempted with the promise of drinks. But the café is comfortable and warm and it is where Enjolras will meet them. He doesn’t feel apprehensive about meeting Enjolras, not quite. He still refuses to believe in fate, but if the man could give him green then he wants to meet him, to talk, even if he has been warned that their ideals clash and their styles are in opposite, to be polite.

The backroom of the café is theirs, and Grantaire is surprised to note that he didn’t know of the café that they found themselves in. He thought he knew all the best places to be in Paris. But then again, had he stumbled across the narrow café then it is likely that he would have sooner stumbled upon Les Amis.

There is laughing and drinking and Grantaire feels himself settle with an ease that he wouldn’t have expected. He is good with people, but people do not always denote colours and this feels right. The surprise of colours has not yet faded. Coffee has been split and stories have been told. Grantaire and Bahorel box at the same club and Jehan teaches a poetry class at the same evening school that Grantaire assists in using art as rehabilitation for young offenders. Grantaire will still not believe in fate, but Paris is contracting around him. Contracting and brightening.

Money has changed hands with idle promises of payment in kind, and strangely named drinks have been passed around and tried – excluding, of course, Joly – it is a bond, a brotherhood. Floréal will be proud of him. Grantaire is proud of himself. He never wants for company but he does not feel that he will want for friends.

He is telling a story, not quite back at his game yet because suddenly a flash of rose or cream or fuchsia emerge from a cuff or a phone or a touch of makeup and Grantaire is reminded of how much these people have given him in such a short period of time. Of the brightness of the world. When a cry of ‘Enjolras’ is taken up interrupting his flow, and the breeze tickles the back of Grantaire’s neck, silencing him.

And in Enjolras walks.

Red jacket flaps as though he were the conquering hero, hands cocked on his hips and immediately Enjolras has a much larger sense of humour than Grantaire had expected. For he is playing along with his friends faint smattering of applause, striking a pose and bowing shallowly, smile sparkling across his face.

The backroom welcomes him home.

“Is there someone new here?” Enjolras’ voice is a little hoarse; he has been speaking for the better part of a day, projecting his voice and adjusting his tone accordingly. But he still sounds friendly as he steps further into the narrow backroom.

It feels warmer.

Grantaire waves his hand idly. He shouldn’t be too hard to spot as new within a crowd of under ten, but perhaps he blends in. Perhaps Enjolras doesn’t have his colours. Perhaps he already looks like he belongs.

Enjolras steps forward.

Suddenly there is a free stool next to Grantaire, and Grantaire isn’t’ aware of anyone moving to free up the space but Enjolras doesn’t sit.

“And you were in the crowd, earlier today? You were there?”

Enjolras is remarkably direct. He should have expected that. Direct and close. Suddenly the colour green isn’t the most overwhelming thing to have happened today. Enjolras is beautiful, objectively this cannot be denied. His hair is like thunder and his skin like smooth asphalt. There isn’t a flicker of green in his dark brown eyes but that is almost a relief. It would be too much. Grantaire can see Enjolras entirely in colour. He is the first person to contain no grey to Grantaire at all. Enjolras is created out of absolutes. And he is remarkably close.

“I don’t know. I can’t know. There were so many people there, but thank you. I think it must have been you. And it’s beautiful.”

“What is?”

Enjolras’ perfect hand is resting over Grantaire’s heart and it is an incredibly intimate moment to share with an almost perfect stranger. He hadn’t noticed it from a distance but the top button of Enjolras’ white button-down is green. It’s been sown on with brown thread, and it must have been a replacement as it doesn’t match the other black buttons with their black thread. They are all open to his sternum, so it seems a pointless observation to make.

There is a touch of green at Enjolras’ throat.

Enjolras leans in, his breath teasing Grantaire’s ear. And oh, this man is dangerous because Grantaire’s throat has grown dry and there is nothing that can be done but for him to wait for Enjolras to plunge them over the edge. His heart must be beating a tattoo under Enjolras’ palm.

The world has constricted to just them, to Enjolras’ whisper in his ear and the flash of green at his neck.

“Red.”

The word is like a kiss, and he shudders like he’d been struck. Enjolras looks unduly pleased by himself. And Grantaire thinks that in another life he would have leant forward that moment to kiss him. But that would have been another life without colours, and instead he smiles and draws a hand to cover Enjolras’ at his heart. To his joy Enjolras turns his palm to catch his fingers. Enjolras is bold, and seats himself down between Grantaire and Jehan to join a conversation which had grown silent.

Combeferre breaks the silence first with a laugh, and finally Enjolras’ marble face breaks into a blush. It takes the mocking from his best friend to do what brazenly flirting with Grantaire had failed.

“Enjolras has always responded to his colours strongly-” Courfeyrac begins, not hiding his own smile.

“- Not this strongly!” He sounds indignant and it is adorable, a far cry from the angel of justice who had spoken, or the Muse Erato who had whispered colour like a love letter in his ear, he sounds human. An obvious observation, but true. And his grip tightens in Grantaire’s.

“- No. Not this strongly.” Courfeyrac concedes, and his smile while rich and deep – Grantaire can see the pink of his gums alongside shining white teeth – is honest. Colours don’t make a person more beautiful, but they help to highlight the beauty within.

The laughter continues, the topic conversation is dropped, even as Enjolras does not let go his hand. Feuilly folds up his napkin into a rose as a prize for who out of Joly and Jehan can win an arm wrestling competition. Bahorel wants to challenge the winner but that decision is veto’d by the majority.

Someone, it might even be Grantaire, throws their wallet to the table for a pitcher of hot chocolate; which with its swirls of orange and steaming foam and is indicative of the soon coming autumn. Soon the leaves will die down to oranges, to browns and yellows. They won’t remain that fiery green forever. But the mug that Grantaire is handed has the words ‘Corinthe Coffee’ hand lettered in green paint. The button at Enjolras’ throat.

Grantaire has always known that the world is full of more colours than he could ever know. That was the staple of Colour Theory; colours were not trophies to collect, some people could drive themselves mad looking for every colour under the sun, would weep for the missing grey quarter or would hide themselves away shunning anyone who would bring them brightness. There are a multitude of colours out in the universe, in the world and Grantaire will never know all of them. On their fourth date they go to an art gallery, and Grantaire knows that there is no painting that he and Enjolras see as the same. There are still absences of colour amid the beautiful artwork, ones that he may never fill, but it is all beautiful in its own way.

He has pink, and yellow, and turquoise, and lilac, and plum, and brown. He has russet and navy blue and bronze and orange. He has Floréal an ocean away. He has Éponine who will never abandon him. He has Joly and Bossuet who will always pick him up. He has Les Amis who love him, and he has Enjolras who he loves. He has Enjolras’ kisses and his affection; his timid smiles and his wild hands.

And green; he has green.


End file.
